End
by Dr. Robin
Summary: Two friends. One defining moment. What happens when someone close to you is no longer there? Dr. Shepherd is faced with that very question after a tragic accident claims a treasured life. Season 15 premiere-if Greg hadn't died. OFC/Abby/Cast. Please R&R!
1. Chapter 1

**The contents of this story may upset some people, I'll warn you ahead of time! This story takes place during the season 15 premiere, and a character other than Greg dies---I'm not gonna spoil it for you, but I will say this: the person who dies is one of the series' favorites. This character is my favorite in the series' history, it was difficult to write, and I wrote this trying to keep in mind how my character (OFC alert!) would probably react to the death of her best friend. Sorry if it makes you sad. Sorry for any typos! Please read and reveiw!!**

~*~

_If love could have saved you, you would have lived forever._

_------------------------------_

_It's easier to leave than to be left._

_------------------------------_

_Strange, isn't it? Each man's life touches so many other lives. When he isn't around he leaves an awful hole, doesn't he?_

~ Clarence the Angel – _It's A Wonderful Life _~

~*~

* * *

**-Part 1-**

"**Left"**

A busy emergency room in slow motion. Sound is slowed, deep, and warped. People—doctors, nurses, patients and their family members—move about inch by inch, time creeping by, as the world outside of these walls flies by at the speed of light. A small boy with his arm in a navy blue sling sits on a gurney outside of Curtain 3, his mother sitting next to him as they wait to be discharged. Two nurses push a gurney from Trauma 1 out into the hallway and over to the elevators outside of Curtain 3. An elderly man rests against the wall of Curtain 1. A doctor helps a drunk man, walking in from the waiting room and past the front desk where several staff members stand around not doing much of anything.

Greg, Archie, Neela, Sam, and Malik are donning their cheap, yellow paper-like gowns, eye goggles, and putting on their gloves. They say nothing to one another. Their broken eyes scream of mourning on this night. They're troubled, and they have every right to be after the hell they've been through in the last twelve hours. They have to stay grounded, keep their heads straight and focus on the trauma coming in at any minute. They've been closed to trauma for hours because of what happened, but the medics called in a few minutes ago and suggested that they might want to take this one. They know not who it is; all they know is what happened. Tragic. It happened right down the street, not even a block away. Someone jumped in front of the "L" train. They've handled plenty of these cases before, why should this one be any different?

There is no sound. The ambulance bay doors slide open slowly. Pickman, performing chest compressions, and Zadro—both drenched with rain from the downpour outside—roll their gurney into the waiting room, their patient laying on top of it: soaking wet, their clothes torn and shredded, bloodied beyond all possible recognition. The two paramedics' faces are somber and alarmed at the same time. The three doctors and two nurses rush to meet them in the middle of the waiting room as they push the gurney toward the second set of sliding doors. The group wheels the gravely wounded patient into the main hall and starts their long walk to Trauma 1—seconds drag by, one by one. No words can be heard as Zadro gives the details of the person's condition and what supposedly happened. The group exchanges exhausted, nervous glances. They round the corner leading to Trauma 1 and push the gurney headfirst past the drug lock-up and into the room. They lift the patient onto the trauma gurney, and the paramedics leave with their own.

Medications and x-rays are ordered. Bags of fluid are hung on the IV poles, and IVs are started in the patient's arms. The patient—already intubated—has oxygen forced into their lungs with an ambu bag held by Malik. The 12-lead ECG is hooked up to the person's chest. The blood pressure is taken. Archie takes over the chest compressions. The rhythm of this trauma is like any other.

Neela shines her penlight into the person's eyes. There's something there. Something so unmistakably familiar. She looks at their face, but can't find anything—their face is covered with scrapes, bruises, lacerations, torn to shreds; their bottom lip has been sliced in two; their nose is smashed and broken, as is the rest of their face. She notices their hair: semi-short and dark brown. She glances down at their shoes and something hits her. She's seen them before, no mistake. Black Vans sneakers with a green stripe running across both sides of each shoe. She studies their blood-soaked clothes. Her face goes numb and loses all expression. Tears fill her eyes. She stares at a mangled pair of green scrubs.

There falls a stillness upon them, and everyone stops for the shortest moment. Then, the pace of the trauma picks up—but time creeps by still. They're more afraid, stressed beyond belief, jittery. This person is someone they know. It's someone who's been here since long before they were. Someone who's guided them, taught them, comforted them. Someone they love.

~*~

_What's done cannot be undone._

~ William Shakespeare ~

~*~

Sam, Neela, Malik, Greg, and Archie stand around the patient: their arms falling at their sides, their heads hanging—looking down at their fallen colleague. All that's left is a shape that resembles this person; their soul has been invaded, and devoured, by a black flame—one that they should've seen. Their gowns and gloves have been bloodied, along with the gurney and the floor. All efforts have been exhausted. All resources have been depleted. Tears streak down the wounded faces of these five people—the heroes who tried to save one of their own. Emotions are at their peak, and also, blunted at the same time. Anger, surprise, mourning...an entire wave of emotions are churning inside them at this moment. A mountain of guilt weighs on their shoulders—they should've known, they should've been able to stop this. Their soul cried out to them, but they themselves were devastated by the events of the day. They remember telling themselves not to let their friend out of their sight, knowing they were likely to die if left to their own devices. Suicidal patients are one thing. Suicidal friends are something altogether different. They don't know how to react. All they can do is cry. They had to give up the fight, even though they could've gone on for hours trying to save them. They can sense all eyes on the trauma room: from the front desk, from the hall. Staff stand outside the trauma room doors, watching, crying. Among them, standing in front, is Luka. Tears fill his hollow, bloodshot eyes and slide down his cheeks. He's already been deeply traumatized by the tragic events that occurred earlier in the day, and now he's watched as one of his best friends has passed on—a violent, lonely end.

The five who have tried so heroically finally have to take a step back and a deep breath, taking a moment to gather themselves and their thoughts—anguish on their faces, gathered in silence. It will take them a long time to recover from this harsh reality. All except Neela begin to take their gowns, gloves, and goggles off. Sam slowly walks over to one of the carts nearby and comes back with a sheet, handing it to Neela—who's so traumatized by what's happened that she can't move or she would've done it herself. Neela starts to unfold the pale blue fabric—draping one end over the person's feet, as tears swell in her eyes again, and taking the other and bringing it up to their shoulders. She pauses, taking one last look at what's become of her friend, and then, covers their face—shaking her head in anger and sadness. She pulls the stool over that's near her, sits down, and buries her face in her hands as she begins to sob uncontrollably. Greg moves over to her and tries to console her, putting a hand on her back and rubbing soothing circles. There are no words to express in the final echoes of this tragedy. There are no words to say. There are no words.

~*~

**There's the first part! Only two more to go! Hope you like it so far, let me know what you think!**


	2. Chapter 2

**-Part 2-**

**"Hollow"**

~*~

_I fear too early, for my mind misgives_

_Some consequence yet hanging in the stars_

_Shall bitterly begin his fearful date_

_With this night's revels, and expire the term_

_Of a despis__P__d life closed within my breast_

_By some vile forfeit of untimely death._

_But he that hath the steerage of my course_

_Direct my sail._

~ Romeo (William Shakespeare – _Romeo and Juliet_ (Act 1, Scene 4, Lines 113-120) ~

~*~

~ Eight hours earlier ~

_I can't help but look around at the world as I sit on the bench in the ambulance bay, which is deserted except for the likes of myself and a pigeon who's waddling near the dumpster and pecking at some garbage that's fallen on the pavement. I munch on my little bag of Cheetos and look at the building that surrounds me: the faded red bricks have lost their color over the decades; a man slowly washes the windows on the fifth floor, takin' his sweet ol' time as he moves from one dirty window to the next down the hallway; a few patients peer out of their windows, staring into the daylight that shines down on them. This hospital warms my heart and soothes my soul in ways that not many staff members can relate to. My friends and the patients...they've healed my broken mind and body countless times over. Something about this place pulls you in and doesn't let go; it wraps you in its arms, holds you like a womb, and becomes your haven; it cares for you, guides you, changes you, and teaches you some of life's hard lessons. It can also break you. It can shatter yourself and your life into a million pieces, and you're left standing with nothing—forcing you to carefully reconstruct what you've strived so hard to achieve and stand for in life. This place becomes a part of who you are._

_The sound of a siren hits my ears and brings me out of my afternoon break reveries. The ambulance races into my view and comes to a hasty stop in front of me. Zadro jumps out of the driver's seat and asks me if I'm takin' this one. I tell him that I'm on my break, but he quickly shouts that I might wanna take this one as he opens the back doors. He seems on edge, nervous, and moves quicker than he usually does. I toss my snack into the garbage can and jog over to the back of the rig—pulling out a pair of gloves from a pocket in my lab coat and sliding them onto my hands. Pickman pulls the stretcher out, the wheels drop and lock. I look up from my hands, and my eyes fall upon...her face._

_Abby._

_My heart stops. For a moment, my vision goes blank, a searing hot white. My bones freeze, and my joints lock. I can't move. I can't breathe. The blood in my veins runs cold and sends a chill down my spine. My mouth is agape, but I can't speak. My hands tremble. A sudden barrage of memories and images of better days rips across my mind in startling clips behind my eyes, and I watch as they speed by like a film in fast forward—from the moment we met ten years ago to this very second as I look at her pale, bloodied, lifeless frame lying on the stretcher strapped to a backboard. I ask Zadro and Pickman what the hell happened to her, my voice soft and unchanging. Pickman's voice fades from the moment she starts to speak, and I hear nothing more. Silence. I can't bring myself to tear my eyes away from her face. Before I realize it, my feet begin pounding the pavement as we rush toward the ambulance bay doors. My knuckles blanch white as I hold the stretcher frame tightly in my hands, the metal cold against my palms. We shoot through Chairs and through the sliding doors into the main hall. I glance over to the front desk and cry out, **"It's Abby!" **frantically to Sam, Pratt, Malik, Chuny, and Tony who're all milling around. They rush over to us, stunned out of their good day. The group of us jets down the hall—past the nurses station, past Curtain 3—and we swing the stretcher around and head toward Trauma 1. We crash through the doors and park the stretcher next to the gurney in the center of the room. We each grab a hold of the backboard, and 1, 2, 3—we bring her over. Unstrapping her from the board and log-rolling her onto her side, Pratt and Sam take it from under her and hand it to Zadro. The two medics roll their stretcher out into the hall, watching on from behind the double doors. _

_We move at a more hurried pace than we normally do—it's someone we know and love, we have to save her. Our voices are tight and strained as we try to force the words out of our mouths. We order tests, x-rays, meds. We start IVs, hang bags of saline and Ringer's on the IV poles, hang bags of blood and run 'em through the rapid infuser, and check her vital signs—which aren't hopeful. I shout to no one in particular to get a hold of Luka, so that he and Joe can be here with her. My voice sounds strange, childlike almost: scared, anxious, phrenetic. I feel everyone's eyes on me for the quickest moment. They know my fear._

_A shrill alarm sounds. She's stopped breathing._

_My heart races as I jump to the head of the stretcher—yelling for someone to get me an intubation tray, 7.5 ET tube. I watch her face for a split second: pale, cold, covered in splattered blood. Pulse ox's 85. She needs oxygen now. Sam hands me the laryngoscope, and I gently place the blade against her tongue and sweep it to the left. I see the cords and grab the tube from Sam. Close your eyes and breathe. I can't get the tube to pass—too much blood. Sam suctions her airway for a few seconds. Try again. I see the cords and pass the tube. Remove the stylet. "Bag her, now!" Pratt listens for lung sounds. Clear bilaterally. Good...good. Breathe. "Why didn't the fuckin' paramedics tube her in the field?" I ask aloud, not meaning to. **"Jesus Christ!" **_

_"Calm down, Rob—" _

_"Shut the hell up, Tony!" I hand the ambu bag over to Chuny and move back to Abby's side. As soon as I do..._

_V-fib!_

_The heart monitor goes berserk with a high-pitched beeping that sends us all into a state of panic. Her pulse slips beneath the fingers like a stretched thread, like a harp string about to break. "I need the stool. Where's the damn footstool?!" I shout. I spot it near my feet and drag it over with one foot. Stepping up, I lace my fingers together and place the palm of my hand on her sternum. Blood, like candle wax, drips in tiny rivulets onto the floor. "Starting compressions," I announce as I start pumping on her chest. "Charge the paddles," I order, as Malik pushes the crash cart over to the other side of the gurney next to Pratt. He readies the defibrillator paddles and places them on her chest. I step back. He shocks._

_Still V-fib!_

_"Again!" I shout, putting my hands back in their place and pumping as fast as I can go. No one is going to surrender this life. Greg puts the paddles on her chest. I step back. He shocks._

_Still V-fib!_

_"Again!" I yell, repeating my movements. Paddles. Step back. Shock._

_No change._

**_"Again!"_**

_Nothing._

**_"AGAIN!"_**

_No._

_And then.... Asystole. _

_Shit! This can't be happening. Not now. I pump on her chest at a fevered pace, breathing heavily, beads of sweat collecting on my forehead. **"Amp of epi!" **I scream. I can't take my eyes away from her face. This is the person that I've trusted for the past ten years. The only person I know who could make me laugh during my truly morbid moments. A person who's trusted me. A person I could turn to when I needed help. A person who turned to me. A person to share laughs and cries with. A person to share joys and pains. A sister. A friend._

_I can't give up. I can't give up. I can't give up._

_Not now._

_"Still asystole," Sam tells me in a heavy tone. I finally look up and see that everyone's slowed their pace. Oh, my God. They're giving up. I scream in desperation, "What are you all **doin'**? You aren't givin' **up** on her like this! **I'm** the senior attending, and we stop when I **say** we stop!" I take a deep, sharp breath and look at each of them for a moment to see if they're noticing this rising hysteria bolting up through my body, threatening to levitate me altogether. Their expressions are somber, but filled with fear. Tears brim in their eyes. They see the pain and desperation in my eyes and in my face. I have to look away and back to Abby. **"Another round of epi," **I say with force. _

_She looks so innocent laying here. Silent. Peaceful. No, she's not gone. I won't let her go. We have to fight._

_"Still flatline," Chuny sighs._

_Pumping on her chest, I soften my tone and start talking to her—as if this will bring her back and keep her here. "C'mon, Abby, stay with us." I close my eyes and breathe. I look at her again. "C'mon, sweetie...don't leave us.... Don't do this to us, not now. Not now." Please, God...don't take her from us...not like this. I close my eyes and pray, my lips moving in rapid silence. The electronic drone of the heart monitor pierces my eardrums to the point where they feel as if they're going to explode. It grinds my nerves to nothing. It enters every pore in my body and swirls in my blood, making me tremble with fear. I feel so frightened, so out of control. I want to hear the bleep of a heartbeat, anything—v-fib, fine v-fib, v-tach. But the lazy minutes move past one after the other with no change. Five minutes: asystole. Ten minutes: asystole. Twenty minutes: still asystole._

_Archie speaks after a long silence,"Rob, I'll take over for a while—"_

_"No," I tell him, trying not to sound like a bitch. I'm powerless to tear myself away._

_"You're gonna get exhausted, you need a break—"_

_"I said **NO**, dammit!" No one speaks. I take a deep breath of the tense air that surrounds us—it makes me shiver. I feel the fear pumping through my veins, and my blood is on fire. There's a deepening realization that there's absolutely nothing that can be done to change that which is true. Deep inside me, I feel a great void opening. I feel another pair of eyes on me, and as I glance over toward the double doors and see him standing there, my heart aches him. _

_Luka._

_He stands silently behind the doors, staring through the large window pane with a haunting gaze. _

_"'Nother round of epi," I sigh, staring into his eyes and trying not to cry. _

_"She's had ten rounds already," Tony says unthreateningly._

**_"And I said give her another!" _**_I scream, shooting him a spiteful look. Everyone can tell from my voice what state I'm in. I look back to Abby—pleading with God to let her open her beautiful brown eyes again. I hear Luka slip through the doors, his shoes squeaking slightly on the cold tile floor. I feel him standing at the foot of the gurney for a moment, then, Greg steps back to let Luka come closer to Abby. He has to stand away from the gurney, he can't take it. I keep my eyes on Abby, but from the corner of my eye, I watch Luka, as well. He runs his hands through his black hair as tears well in his eyes; then, he puts one hand over his mouth—trying to stifle his grief-filled sobs—and hugs himself with the other arm._

_"How long has it been?" he asks suddenly, his voice shattering my heart once again._

_A pause, and then, "An hour and twenty-five minutes," from Sam._

_Damn, I'm not aware that it's been that long until now. Five thousand one hundred seconds. Five thousand one hundred seconds of praying for my best friend's life to not slip through my grasp. Five thousand one hundred seconds of blood sliding, seeping through, and staining my hands, still dripping lazily onto the floor. It seems like twenty minutes ago that I saw her face as Pickman pulled the gurney out of the ambulance. And yet...it seems like a lifetime ago._

_The silence between us drags on—the only sound being the monitor still emitting its shrill, ear-splitting asystole. Flat. Unmoving. Static. Immobile. Still._

_Luka sighs. "Okay...you can stop...."_

_Everyone lets out a collective sigh at his words. But I can't stop. We have to keep going. I slide my eyes up to Luka's, still pounding on Abby's chest, and plead, "Luka.... Luka, you can't **say** that. Alright? You can't **say** that. You **can't**.... We have to keep her **here**! She has to **stay**! She has to be here to help you raise Joe—" The mention of his name makes Luka's face contort as he starts to sob, tears flowing from his eyes. I made a mistake._

_"Rob..." Sam says gently._

_"No," I tell her—and everyone else—as I watch Abby's face. It's becoming more difficult to speak._

_"Robin...."_

_I can't give up. Keep going._

_"Dr. Shepherd." Her voice rises, frustrated at my stubbornness._

_I can't let her go. Gotta keep going._

_Silence. Asystole._

_"Robin, please, just **stop**!!" Luka shouts._

_No. Keep going._

_Luka steps forward, putting one of his hands over mine. The warmth of him comforts me. My bloody hands are engulfed by just his one hand. His wedding band glistens from the overhead light shining down from above. I can't look at his face. It'll be too hard to look into his eyes._

_"Rob..." he whispers. "You can stop now...."_

_I have to close my eyes. My face heats up. I clench my teeth and force my lips together. I look at Abby, my vision blurry from my tears which stream down my cheeks—landing and soaking into the arms of my lab coat. I realize in this moment that I'm holding on to someone who's already gone. My compressions start to slow, a longer pause between each one. With one last twitch of my muscles, one last compression is all I can muster. The shrill drone of asystole abruptly ends as Malik switches the machine off. Silence._

_Oh, God.... That's it.... It's over.... She can't be gone. Never again will we hear her sweet voice. No more giggles and laughter. No more heartfelt talks whenever something's going wrong. No more passing glances and warm grins.... And never again will we see her face: friendly, warm, inviting, trusting. Her soft eyes, deep and wise. Her angelic smile that could brighten the darkest of places.... Abby...._

_Everything's gone. All we have now are our memories, and that just isn't enough._

_Luka takes his hand away, and it's time for me to do the same. I slowly take my hands away from Abby's chest and stand on the footstool with my bloodied hands hanging at my sides like two dead weights. My feet become frozen, and I don't know whether to run away or wait for the roof to cave in. It hits me now that I'll have to say the soul-shattering words that I've spoken thousands of times before. But it's different now. I step down onto the floor, releasing a ragged and defeated breath. I manage to unclinch my jaw and force my lips to part, but I can't speak the words. They won't come to me. They're swirling around in my head, but I can't seem to put my finger on them. My eyes slide over toward the doors and my head follows slowly behind. I read the black numbers on the clock face—staring at them for what seems like an eternity. Then, my eyes move over toward Abby's face, with my head trailing behind again. I can't bear the thought of what I have to do now.... Oh, God...I have to say it. _

_"Time of death...19:01...." _

_My words, barely a whisper, pierce the silence. The sound of my voice echoes inside my head—it sounds flat and dead in my own ears. It sounds emotionless, dull, cold, weary, deathlike. My throat's dry and the words choke me, paralyzing my lips. There's nothing left to say. Something has died inside of me. Something unmeasurable and indistinct. Something so massive that I'm surprised I'm still breathing. I've come to a grinding halt. My words have stricken everyone like a bullet and sucked the air out of the room, and I wonder if anyone else is breathing. My eyes float from one person to the other, making sure they're alright.... But of course they're not alright. No one is. How can they be? _

_Loss. That's what's here. Grief, sorrow, wordless and unfathomable. Its power is hard to believe._

_At this moment I have no tears to shed. I don't feel sorrow...I feel anger. I'm angrier than I've ever been before—more than I thought was even possible. _

_Everyone else begins to shift around—removing their gloves, gowns, and goggles and letting them drop to the floor. In everyone's eyes, tears and distress—there's something in their faces I can't endure. Luka and I stand unmoving, not wanting to accept that which is true. The others make their way slowly toward the double doors, and Morris tells us that they're gonna give us some time. As the doors swing closed, I know that I have to leave to—Luka needs some time alone with her. I take a step back, and for a moment, I watch them both. Unconditional love and grief pour out of Luka as he watches her in the stillness. My heart breaks for him, and for Joe. As I somehow manage to move my muscles and start to shuffle away, something stops me dead in my tracks.... Luka calls out to me in a low tone, saying my name as he tries to hold back his sorrow. I turn and see his face: full of sadness and friendship, wearing a sympathetic grin as tears streak his cheeks. We look into each other's eyes for a moment, and then he speaks the words that make my heart ache. I want you to stay._

_I nod and put on a compassionate smile—it takes all my strength to do so. I trudge back to my place next to Abby's side across from Luka—pulling my blood-stained gloves off and letting them fall to the floor. We stand together in the muteness not knowing quite what to do. Look at each other? Look at Abby? We're both thinking the same thing, and we reach for stools. Sighs come from us both as we take our seats. I'm enveloped in a kind of shimmering disbelief that I've been able to move and speak at all. It's impossible to convey my desperation and pain, and I know it's terribly hard for Luka, but we both feel one another's sorrow and brokenheartedness. I watch Luka place his elbows on the gurney mattress and take Abby's hand in both of his. He kisses her hand gently and hangs his head, sobbing quietly. All I can do is watch him through my broken eyes. After a while, my eyes slowly sink downward until I'm staring at Abby's wedding ring—remembering the night they got married. It was joyful. Filled with love from everyone. _

_I suddenly hear Luka's voice. I look up and see him standing as he asks me if I can stay with her. I nod and put on that same smile. He has the horrible task of contacting Maggie and Eric and telling them the terrible news—it's an awesome burden. He walks slowly out of the room through the doors and disappears from sight, leaving me alone with my departed best friend. I glance at the clock and see that we've been sitting quietly for over a half hour. I turn my eyes back to her and watch over her in my muted vigil. It's now that I notice that she's still wearing her lab coat—blackened, torn, and bloodied. _

_I have to move around, something, anything. I stand and roll my stool away to the side. I grab a sheet from a cart nearby and walk calmly back to Abby. I unfold the pale blue fabric and cover her feet with one end, and , bringing the other up toward her head, I have to stop. I realize what I'm about to do...I'm about to cover my best friend with a shroud. Tears fill my eyes and cascade down my face, staining the sheet I'm holding. I lay the fabric down on her stomach and take her hand in both of mine, wishing she would squeeze back, only for a moment. But she remains limp. It's so cold, and after a minute, I have to let go and gently put her hand back beside her. As I look at her face, I can feel myself start to break. I run my fingers through my hair as my throat knots and I begin to sob, backing up slowly until I hit the counter behind me. My knees buckle and I slide down—the cabinets against my back—until I collapse onto the cold, hard tile floor, tears streaming down my face and soaking my shirt. I have to hold myself up with one arm or I'll collapse under the weight of my sorrow. I haven't cried like this in years. No. I have never cried this way in my entire life. It hurts, like a rope snaking around my lungs. My stomach tightens and I can't breathe. I feel sick, nauseous, ready to vomit. But I keep crying. I tremble violently, an occasional whimper passing through my lips. I want to hear nothing, see nothing, feel nothing. I have so many tears to cry. I start to talk with God inside my head._

_Why did you have to take her away? Why did you take her away from me? From Luka and Joe? From everyone here in the ER? From everyone who loves her? Why now? How could you do this to us? She means so much to everyone. What the fuck is wrong with you? Don't take her away. Take me. Take me instead. Please, God, take me. Why have you done this? How could you do this? _

_I have no answers. And I'll never get them._

_As I heave out sobs, an anger that's like nothing I've ever experienced before begins to burn inside me, burning hotter and brighter with every passing second. I breathe heavier, slower. I rise with some difficulty from my place on the floor and stand still for a short while. My eyes burn with anguish and anger. I move toward the back of the room slowly, gritting my teeth. With a sudden ear-splitting crash, I realize what I'm doing. I overturn every cart, spilling supplies onto the floor in piles, kicking them across the room, tossing the carts every which way. I know the loud, sudden ruckus can be heard throughout the ER, but I don't care. I grunt and scream until my throat's raw, but I keep crying out anyway. I take the used intubation tray and hurl it at the double doors—instruments flying everywhere and crashing loudly onto the floor. I grab the IV stand and tear the empty saline and blood bags off, throwing them to the ground. I wrap my fingers around the frigid steel, grasping it firmly in my hands. My anger boils over. I charge toward the back cabinets and drive the foot of the IV pole into the large glass panels—smashing one after another and screaming my lungs out. Millions of shards of glass crumble to the floor at my feet. I throw the stand with force to the side. I breathe rapidly, heavily. My strength is wasted. There's nothing left. My stomach tightens and saliva pours into my mouth. I hunch over with one hand on the remnants of the cabinet door frame. Warm, viscous bile spews from my mouth and onto the supplies and glass at my feet. I don't move for a moment. A string of spit dangles from my lower lip, and I spit onto the floor several times._

_I hear the doors burst open and look over to see Archie and Sam standing in amazement at the chaos I've created. Before they can mutter a word, an orderly pushing a gurney stops just outside the doors. Morris tells him that they'll take care of it and turns back to me as the orderly reluctantly turns around and leaves. Sam asks me if I'm alright. I say nothing and just stare at Abby's face from behind the gurney. In the gentlest tone he can muster, Archie tells me downheartedly that they have to take her now. _

_No. They can't take her. They can't. I'm not ready to say goodbye, not yet. I have so much more that I wanna say, but I can't make my mouth move to get the words out. I find myself nodding, telling them it's okay to whisk her away to the morgue. No, what am I doing? Don't nod. They're gonna take her away. Don't let them! But before I know it, Sam and Archie move over to the bed and raise the side rails. Tears flow from my eyes. I have to say goodbye now. I have to let go. I bend over and kiss her forehead softly. Sam and Archie disengage the brakes and begin to roll her out of the room. I can't breathe. Scenes from the past ten years play in my head at lightening speed. My thoughts drift back to Abby's first night in the ER and the first time we met._

Sitting in the suture room, I was stitching up another drunk who'd passed out on the gurney in front of me. He was a college frat guy who drank a wee bit too much at a party and was propositioning me as he started to fall asleep and passed out cold. Flattered, yes. Any way in hell I'd take him up on it, no. I was laughing to myself when Mark came into the room with a med student trailing behind him—giving her the grand tour.

"And here we have Dr. Shepherd, another one of our attendings," he said, walking up to the other side of the bed.

I stopped suturing for a moment, and, smiling, said, "Hi. Let me guess, umm..." and waved my hand in the air in circles, "...3rd year med student. Am I right?"

"Right you are, Dr. Shepherd," Mark smiled.

"Abby Lockhart," she said with a warm smile.

"Robin," I smiled back. "How ya doin'? Ya scared?"

"A little bit, yeah," she said with a slight laugh.

I nodded. Classic first day for a med student: scared shitless. "I hear that. Don't worry, you'll be alright. You need anything, don't be afraid to ask for help, okay? You can always come to me. Even if ya just wanna talk, alright?"

"Thank you," she smiled and nodded.

"No prob," I said.

"Alright," Mark announced, "time to let Robin finish her job and carry on with the tour."

Following him to the door, Abby grinned, "Sounds good."

"Be sure not to kill that guy," Mark said, holding the door open for her.

"Will do," I laughed, and then, said, "Glad to have you in the ER, Abby."

She smiled before she disappeared into the hall, "Thanks, glad to be here."

Then, as the door eased its way closed, I turned back to my intricate sutures—hoping to God that the frat guy wouldn't wake up and continue flirting with me again.

_They pass the doors. The drug lock-up. They reach the main hall and are met by a somber Luka, carrying Joe in his arms. This is the last time my eyes will ever see Abby. For ten years this was what I'd been dreading most, and now...I suffer and see it. They round the corner and I'm left alone once again—struggling to stand. My joints are locked in place. My muscles won't budge. I can't move. I look down at the mess on the floor. Blood. Gloves. Gowns. Goggles. Empty bags of saline, Ringer's, and blood. Bloody gauze. IV tubing. And there's the mess behind me. Sheets. Blankets. Pillowcases. Suture kits. Boxes of alcohol swabs and disposable gloves. Bottles of alcohol, sterile saline, Betadine. Glass. My own vomit. I stand here in nothingness. Silent. Withdrawn. Desperate. Longing. Lost. _

_Broken beyond repair._

_~*~_

_

* * *

_

**There's Chapter 2! One more to go! Let me know what you think!**


	3. Chapter 3

**-Part 3-**

**"Ashes"**

_"I live in the weak and the wounded."_

~ "Simon" (an evil "spirit") in the movie _Session 9 ~_

~*~

_Keep intuition's third eye open forever, after recovery, to note the first trembling turning leaves of a change of season._

~ Rose Styron – from "Strands" ~

_------------------------------_

_Come weep with me, past hope, past care, past help._

~ Juliet (William Shakespeare – _Romeo and Juliet_ (Act 4, Scene 1, Line 46) ~

~*~

* * *

_Time passes and I find myself sitting on the floor again, in the same place where I broke down earlier—my back against the cabinets, feet sprawled out in from of me, arms lifeless at my sides, head cocked awkwardly at an angle. No stir of air or life is here. Everything looks and seems so dull. Weariness has settled into my veins, my limbs, my brain, like molten lead. I'm semi-oblivious to the world. My eyes are open, but my brain is swaying gently in its hammock, tucked away in the far back reaches of my skull. My eyes are glued to the red on the floor. The red that'd seeped out of Abby's bruised and broken body. The scene from _The Shining_ plays repeatedly in my head—the elevator opens in slow-motion, and blood begins to gush and spew out between the doors, collecting on the floor and forming a tidal wave that engulfs me in silent terror. It paralyzes every ounce of my being—I can't move, I can't breathe, I can't think, I can't even blink. Incomprehensible. Nothing makes sense. I sit, inert, in my own nightmare. _

_Will I breathe again?_

_Someone says my name from far off, but I can't concentrate enough to look around and see who it is. Again they try to get my attention, but I don't shift from my place. They pass in front of me, stepping over my feet, and I see their pale blue scrubs. Sam. She kneels beside me, but I can't look at her. She talks to me, but I can't hear her. The one thing I do hear her say is that she's worried because I've been sitting like this in here for over two hours. She puts her hand on my shoulder, and pulls back a little as I jerk, but that doesn't stop her. She sighs heavily and takes a seat on the ground next to me, crossing her ankles and putting her hands in her lap. It means a lot to me that she's here. She's always been a wonderful, loyal friend. I wonder what's going on in her mind after all that's happened. Probably nothing good. I want to say something to her, anything, that could ease her mind, but my mouth won't work and I have no energy to speak. I slide my eyes down to my watch. 9:35. Two and a half more hours left on my shift. I sigh and manage to turn my head to acknowledge Sam, finally making eye contact with her. She meets my gaze, and I give her a sympathetic grin—which she returns to me._

_I draw my legs up, putting my feet on the floor, and begin to push myself up—moving slowly, robot-like in my movements. Sam pushes herself up, as well, and we stand together in quiet contemplation. I look at her blankly for a moment—my restless mind whirling—and then, turn and pass through the trauma doors without words. _

_I walk past the drug lock-up, turning right into the main hallway, and taking steps slowly toward the end of the hall, moving around in a daze. I stop and look through the glass-paneled door of the Family Room. I peer through the slits in the blinds and watch Luka holding Joe in his arms—crying his eyes out, sobbing uncontrollably. I wanna go in and show him that I'm here for him and Joe, but I can't bother them right now. I wanna hold them both in my arms and tell them that everything's gonna be alright. But things won't be alright, not for a long time. For one last moment, I keep my eyes fixed on the broken family in front of me. _

_Without a thought, I turn and head back down the hall—wandering about aimlessly, not knowing what to do with myself—rounding the corner at Curtain 3, passing the elevators, and making a beeline for the lounge._

~*~

_You have to sit with the past before you can walk away from it._

~*~

_The door closes behind me, and I'm abandoned in the shadowy, comfortable room. I ease my way over to my locker and just stand, not moving for a short time. I turn the black dial, putting in the combination, and lift the latch. As the door swings open, I see several personal items stashed in here—a hairbrush, toothbrush and toothpaste, deodorant, and extra blood sugar monitor and insulin, a pad of paper and some pens, an extra stethoscope and pair of shoes. I reach for the paper and a pen and take a seat on the bench behind me. With so many thoughts and things I want to say, I can't seem to write anything. I don't wanna ramble on like I usually do with things like these. I want it short and sweet. My fingers start to move, and I find myself writing:_

Dear ER Gang,

I love you all.

Take care of each other.

I'm sorry.

Farewell.

Love, Robin

_I stare at the words scribbled on the paper, and I'm not sad. But I'm not happy either. With a sigh, I stand and place the pen and paper on the top shelf, and I slide the note into the pocket of my lab coat. I look at the green embroidery above the pocket and a pang of grief stings my heart._

_ **Dr. Robin Shepherd, M.D.**_

**_Emergency Physician_**

**_We love you—the ER gang _**

_I have to look away. I start to close the metal door, but I catch my reflection in my mirror. It's a mocking, unbelievable resemblance of something I knew long ago. I don't look like myself. I look like I haven't slept in days. My eyes are bloodshot and puffy—barely registering any sign of life. My face is ghostly pale. I look mortally wounded. I have no expression. No spirit. I'm so pathetic, and I can't look at myself anymore. I gently shut the door and stare at my name tag on the outside: Shepherd. I wanna take it off, but I wanna leave everything as it is. And I do, stepping away and trudging over to the other door._

_~*~_

_...and the one who had most patience in its bearing seemed to say, weeping: 'I can no more.'_

~ Dante – _The Divine Comedy _("Purgatory", Chapter 10) ~

_~*~_

_I walk past the elevators and up to the front desk where Greg, Sam, Archie, Tony, and Frank stand. Like a movie in slow motion, it seems to take forever to reach them. I feel sick, weak, pathetic. I feel as though my spontaneous decision is just another example of how fragile and wretched I am. They watch me cautiously. I let out a sigh; it's not an "Oh well" or a "That's life" kind of sigh. Mine is an exhalation that sounds like it could possibly end in my demise. It's a sigh of surrender. I begin to pull off my lab coat. Abby's blood has been smeared and splashed on it—which I haven't noticed. My eyes fixate on the red, and then, I glance down at my green scrubs. Abby's blood. I sigh and start to fold my coat up gently. I lay it on the desk with the message face-up and my note sticking out of the pocket next to my ID badge. My hand lingers on the fabric shortly, my fingers running over the embroidery. I take my black stethoscope from around my neck and place it on top of my coat. I glance at everyone. I can't think of anything to say. I haven't spoken a word in hours. I haven't uttered a word since I pronounced Abby. I want to say something that will grab their attention. Suddenly, my mind drifts back to my college years when I was in drama. I was in _"Romeo and Juliet" _and played the part of Juliet. There's one line that comes to mind at this moment in time. I grin sympathetically at all of them, and then, recite, "Farewell.... God knows when we shall meet again...._4_" My little grin stays for a few seconds as I watch them, backing away from the desk slowly, and then, I turn and walk through the sliding doors—my legs moving mechanically, in spite of me, without me. These are the last words I will ever speak to them. It's time to leave my chosen profession behind me with a few words and nothing more. I certainly don't want to burden anyone with what's happening in my head. I have to cope alone. I can't bear to leave...and I can't bear to stay. Grief squeezes at my eggshell heart like it might break into a thousand pieces—its contents running like broken promises. I stare blankly ahead as I hear Greg and Sam shout my name a few times. I walk through the ambulance bay doors and into the darkness of the night. _

_I stand on the "L" platform watching my train roll in and come to a stop. The doors slide open with that familiar "tssh" sound that I love. Even though it's a warm night, I'm frozen. I can't walk. I wanna go home. I need to go home. I have to go home. The doors close, and the train slowly starts to pull away. It picks up speed quickly—a blur of metal and windows and the occasional person in one of the cars. And then, it's gone. I'm left with the stormy thoughts within my crushed mind. I find myself turning and moving toward one of the benches nearby. I sit down quietly in my tormented state and stare at the platform beneath me...utterly alone._

_~*~_

_Without friends...no one would choose to live._

~ Aristotle ~

_~*~_

_It's 3:15...the devil's hour. Here I sit, after all this time in the black small hours. I haven't moved. I haven't wanted to. I'm safer to sit still. Time has passed in a painful haze. I've plummeted into a black and gray and tired heap, sitting like a bundle of rags. I feel that I'm about to dissolve or in some way lose my solid form. I'm forgotten by time, which must continue to pass for others but no longer wishes to pass for me. Time doesn't bother with me because it no longer believes in me, and I, therefore, now hope for nothing from time. So I'm waiting for...nothing. _

_I'm 41 years old, and I've spent the last 17 years of my life working in that hospital. To many, it must seem easy for me to just up and leave like this, but in reality, it's the hardest decision I've ever made. That place has been my second home since I was 24—a naive, bumbling 3rd year med student. Sometimes it's been rewarding and energizing, other times it's been hell. Like today. County has taken away from me some dear friends over the years: Dennis Gant, Lucy Knight, Mark Greene, Robert Romano, and now...Abby Lockhart—the closest friend I've ever had. I'm reminded again of a few lines from _Romeo and Juliet_, where Romeo seeks revenge for the death of his best friend, Mercutio._

_"...for Mercutio's soul_

_Is but a little way above our heads,_

_Staying for thine to keep him company._

_Either thou or I, or both, must go with him._5_" _

_This is my breaking point. I've seen too many friends die in front of me. I've had enough. I can't go back to normal.... It doesn't exist anymore._

_This ends tonight._

_Lodged within my turbulent mind and soul...the Darkness comes. It reemerges after all these years, and I feel it peering into my soul. Black clouds form in the recesses of my head. Darkness and black despair seep into my body, poisoning my blood, and making bedlam within my brain—disturbing beyond description. My anger recedes and an overpowering sorrow pulses over me unlike anything I've ever experienced before—even during my worst suicidal depressions. This is something much deeper. It reaches down into my soul and strangles my will to live until there's nothing left. No feeling. No warmth. No sound. Just emptiness._

_Thunder rolls through the sky, lightening splits the heavy sky, and—almost at this same moment—a blinding sheet of torrential rain begins to fall—pounding on the "L" platform awning above me. Suddenly, something within guides me to stand. With a gentle hand, something pushes me along the platform—walking aimlessly in this morbid night solitude toward the end of the awning about fifty feet away. I move in morbid, unnatural, brainless motion. It's getting more difficult to walk, because the distance seems to be longer than usual. Finally, I step out into the pouring rain. It soaks into my hair, my clothes, even my shoes. I turn slightly and end my stroll. _

_I stand motionless at the edge of the platform, feeling the abyss opening beneath me. Some force beyond my control has lead me here. Something heavy and unseen. I stare out across to the other side of the platform—registering nothing—and my eyes fall slowly to the steel tracks below my feet. The air is heavy around me, very still and hard to breathe. Raindrops drip from my hair, my nose, and my chin. They trickle down my arms, to my hands, then my fingers. A train's low-pitched horn hits my ears, and I slide my eyes to the left to spot two white lights in the distance._

_The lights get closer, brighter. About a hundred yards away. The noise of the steel barreling down the tracks is mind-numbing. Fifty yards away. The time is now. I step down onto the tracks. I feel myself on the edge of the world, peering over the rim into a fathomless chaos of eternal night. The rain hits me like a million daggers. I stare ahead at the monstrosity speeding toward me. The lights are blinding. The horn is blaring endlessly. The shrill sound of the brakes sends a shiver down my spine. Twenty-five yards. I lift my head to the heavens—the rain stinging my face with its powerful force—and pray silently for God to forgive me and take me into his loving arms, breathing the anguish of a wounded mind. I look back to the train—the monstrous shadow of steel and iron roaring toward me. Even with the driving rain, I feel warm tears stream down my cheeks. I'm still acutely aware and conscious of the damage I'll do, but there's nothing left in me. In order to save my life, I can only leave it. Faces of my friends and family flash behind my eyes. Everyone I love. I know that they'll probably never forgive me, but I hope that they move on from this tragic night and know it's not their fault. I hate to do this to them, but I can't go on. It's too hard now. I shall die in the black and forgotten depths.... This is where it ends.... What's lost can never be saved...._

_All I can see is metal and blinding lights as I look out into the void. My heart burns with the heat of a thousand suns.... I close my eyes...._

_I breathe—_

__

~*~

_Be not so long to speak. I long to die...._

~ William Shakespeare – _Romeo and Juliet _(Act 4, Scene 1, Line 67) ~

_------------------------------_

_His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,_

_And be among her cloudy trophies hung._

~ John Keats – "Ode to Melancholy" ~

_------------------------------_

_She said, 'I am aweary, aweary,_

_I would that I were dead!'_

~ Alfred, Lord Tennyson – "Mariana" ~

~*~

* * *

**Footnotes**

4. Juliet (William Shakespeare – _Romeo and Juliet _(Act 4, Scene 3, Line 15))

5. Romeo (William Shakespeare – _Romeo and Juliet _(Act 3, Scene 1, Lines 131-134))

~*~

* * *

**Well, there ya have it. Myself being a _HUGE_ Abby fan, it was very hard writing this story, and I'm sorry to all the other Abby fans out there! I hope ya liked it! Please read and review! I really wanna know what ya think!**


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